


Redefining Bravery

by duckbunny



Series: Camaraderie [13]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Camaraderie, Coercion, Comfort, Dubious Consent, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Knife Play, M/M, No Sex, Sadism, Violence, Whipping, room where it happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6143137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is Jefferson, there is Madison, and they are not kind.</p><p>Camaraderie-verse. Mind the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redefining Bravery

**Author's Note:**

> This is how the Room Where It Happened went down in the Camaraderie verse. As with the rest of Camaraderie, there's no sex. Unlike the rest of Camaraderie, there is no happy fun consensual kink. Alexander gets hurt in ways he very much does not enjoy for the sake of political advantage. 
> 
> This is not nice, folks. Watch the tags. I mean it.

Alexander knows exactly what he's come here to give.

He knocks at Jefferson's door with a hand that doesn't tremble. He has learned this control, earned it through the years of courtroom speeches and Cabinet meetings. His heart pounds, his stomach turns somersaults, but his hands and his voice will be steady. Jefferson will not have the satisfaction of his fear.

The deal has already been made. Oh, it's not agreed yet, hasn't been spelled out in words. But he can see the shape of it, like a ship creeping through the mist. The Virginians know they will have to give him his bank, that's been eating at them for weeks. He could hear it, in the frustration rising in their speeches, the pettiness of their arguments. They have lost the campaign against its necessity.

And in return, a token. Something they can disavow in public, with the right smirk and lazy drawl, so that everyone will think they know why the deal was made. They will build a new Capitol and in exchange, Hamilton's debt plan…

Bullshit.

In return, Hamilton's humiliation.

He is led into a sitting room, well furnished, comfortable. There are dozens like it within a mile of here. He doesn't notice much of the room, beyond what it is; he is running on instinct, born in the war and honed through politics, and what he sees is a battleground. The desk, by the window, with the single chair, and the weighty stack of a draft bill. The pair of arm-chairs, turned slightly towards each other. The desk will be his, clearly, and set him like a servant before their fraternal partnership and he can see how this plays out, how they will act the charade through first. Madison, still and calm, meeting his eyes as he enters. The door closing solidly behind him. He is not surprised to hear Jefferson's voice over his shoulder.

“Nice of you to join us, Hamilton. We've been waiting.”

Alexander know he is not late. He refuses to rise to it, to get defensive. He has to play this right. “Madison. Jefferson. I believe we have something to discuss.”

Too sharp. Too proud. The wrong tone entirely. They'll want him to grovel. Jefferson's hand lands between his shoulder-blades.

“Sit down.”

He doesn't tense, and his step doesn't waver. He just walks over to the desk and sits, letting his coat flare around him a little. Time has changed many things but he has not forgotten how to flirt. This will be over all the sooner if he leads them on. Alexander watches them, Jefferson settling into his own armchair, lounging back, a careful pose of ownership but there's tension in the line of his body. He's ready every moment to spring back up. Madison turns his head and smirks, the barest twitch of his lips.

“Well?”

Alexander runs his hand over the draft on the desk beside him, fingers the corner of the heavy stack. He flips over the first page, then the next and the next, seeing nothing corrected. There are no notes to be answered. He lets the paper drop and turns pointedly to face them. “Gentlemen, have you any substantive alterations to propose?”

“Not as such,” Jefferson drawls, and Madison leans back and says “None.”

He spreads his hands. “Then let's do what we came here for.”

Madison only raises an eyebrow, and it's worse than Jefferson's open leer; it's exactly the expression he used to get when they were writing papers together and Alexander went off on flights of rhetoric. Madison was always patient with him, and crossed the paragraphs out anyway – he can't think about that. Better to keep his mind on the stalking figure of Jefferson, tall above him, and raise himself up when Jefferson grabs at his lapels. He stares up, forcing the eye contact, and Jefferson strokes his fine velvet coat and starts undoing his buttons.

It's intimate. Alexander hates that. Hates that he can't decide whether to watch the long-fingered hands working their way down his chest, or Jefferson's slight frown. The coat is cut close – Alexander knows he's vain, and knows his figure is good – and it doesn't fall off his shoulders when opened. Jefferson pushes it back slowly, lets it drop to the chair. Alexander tries to turn to catch it.

Jefferson's hand stops him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Don't start arguing now, Hamilton. We were getting along so well. For once in your life, hold your tongue.”

“I wasn't going to say anything, I was just going to stop my coat from getting creased -”

“For God's sake, man, _stop talking_.”

He does. He grits his teeth and stares at Jefferson's smirking face while Jefferson opens his waistcoat and drops it carelessly onto his coat, he keeps his hands open at his sides and doesn't raise his fists against Jefferson's possessive touch, sliding down his ribs and tugging his shirt up out of his breeches.

“That's far enough.”

Jefferson glances back at Madison, and then he's moving, dragging Alexander forward. “How do you want him, James?”

“On his knees.” Madison raises a finger, and Jefferson stops short, his hands already raised to shove Alexander down. “I want to see him crawl for himself.”

Alexander's heart hasn't stopped racing since he arrived, but that makes something new twist inside him. “You were never like this, Madison, you used to -”

“Shut up. Get on your knees, Hamilton, or there's no bank. You're thinking we can't afford not to pass your plan? You're wrong. We need it. But we don't need _you_. We can wait a year and see you fall before we pass that bill. Give someone else the credit for the plan you wrote. It has its appeal.” Madison leans forward, his eyes glittering. “Or you can work for it. Do as you're told, Alexander. Kneel.”

Slowly, grudgingly, Alexander drops to his knees. He can do this. He can work for it. He crawls forward a few inches, left knee, right knee, until he's almost between Madison's legs. He reaches up to touch Madison's thigh, swallowing down revulsion, and his wrist is caught in Madison's broad hand. Jefferson's laugh rings loud behind him.

“We're not going to fuck you, you little slut. We're just going to take it out of your hide.”

Alexander can't help himself. He shudders, he curls forward, and it's simple relief, and he doesn't much care that Jefferson laughs harder watching it. Madison beckons, and hesitantly he raises his other hand, lets Madison drag him forward by his wrists, raise him up so his whole back is exposed to Jefferson. He can hear himself breathing far too loudly.

He doesn't see what Jefferson hits him with.

Alexander jerks forward at the impact. It hurts, even through his breeches. His chest slams into Madison's chair and Jefferson is already hitting him again, before the burn has any chance to fade and he tries to yank his thighs forward and away but there's nowhere to go and Jefferson is hitting him again.

Half-a-dozen strokes and Jefferson stops. Long fingers tangle in his hair, tug his head up. He's gasping, twisting his wrists against Madison's hands. Jefferson purrs in his ear. “Don't worry, Alexander dear. We're not done with you yet. You'll get your fill. I'm sure a whore like you has been here before.”

Words, just words, he knows that, just weapons flung to hurt him and they don't mean anything, and the spite in Jefferson's voice needn't matter, he only has to endure, and he makes it through the next round on the strength of his hatred, another six welts burning down to his bones. Madison's grip is harsh on his wrists. He thinks he's probably pulling against it, but he doesn't remember. It's so hard to think through the pain.

Jefferson caresses his thighs, fingertips gentle. It takes Alexander a moment to recognise the gesture and then he's wrenching away, as hard as he ever did from the blows. Jefferson hisses and slaps down on the welts. “Ungrateful little bitch.”

Alexander shakes his head desperately, but it's too late. Jefferson shoves himself away, jarring Alexander's ribs against the chair, and he hears Madison tutting gently. “I said you'd have to work for it, Alexander. You're making a poor showing so far.” He looks up and Madison's eyes are black. He wonders how long Madison has wanted this. He wonders whether he'll ever stop.

Jefferson's footsteps are loud behind him. There's a hand on his back, under his shirt, and a shock of cold metal on his skin and then his shirt is ripping as the knife comes up, slicing all the way up to his neck until only the collar holds his shirt together. Alexander freezes. Even when the knife pulls away, he can't move. Madison is smiling down at him in delight. “There. You found a way to make him quiet, Thomas.”

“I should have put it in his mouth.”

Madison shifts, his grip tightening on Alexander's wrists. “Yes,” he says. “Do that.”

“Please don't. Please, don't damage – there'll be questions, it will never stay secret – you can't-” He stops short when the knife touches him, cold against his lips. He doesn't dare move. Sharp, it's sharp, it cut right through his shirt, it will slice him open if he lets it. His mouth is open, he can't close it. The blade probes between his lips, the tip grazing over his tongue. He chants _don't twitch don't twitch don't twitch_ inside his head and stares blindly at Madison's chest, pins his gaze to a button on his waistcoat and doesn't move and doesn't move. The flat of the knife presses his tongue down.

Jefferson ghosts a hand across Alexander's stinging thighs and he keens, an awful pleading sound to fill in for all the words he can't say because if Jefferson strikes him now he will die on the blade in his mouth. Madison laughs, a single satisfied “ha,” and then the knife glides away and Alexander's head is falling to the cushion between Madison's knees.

He tries to breathe. His body doesn't want to cooperate. He wants to cry but he's too far away, cut off from himself. Everything is too bright and sharp and he knows that look in Madison's eyes, knows that possessive slide of Jefferson's hands, knows that he's been here before, and he can't breathe.

The next blows rain down not on his thighs, but on his back, where the meagre protection of his shirt is torn open. Alexander screams. The pain is unbelievable, he can feel his skin splitting and licking fire against his ribs and he can't stop struggling and he can hear screaming and he can't remember who it is because he never makes Laurens scream like this.

He doesn't notice when Jefferson stops. It's an eternity of pain, and then it ebbs, and he's on his knees in front of Madison with Jefferson's hand wound through his hair.

“Who's John?” Madison asks. He's staring, his voice breathy, and Alexander feels sick thinking that he ever looked at Laurens that way. He can't answer, he doesn't dare. He shakes his head. Jefferson sighs.

“What do you think, James? Shall we beat it out of him?”

Madison looks down at Alexander, considering. “Let him keep it for now. It'll give us something to look forward to next time he sells himself for votes. This time… Take his hands, Thomas, let's teach him a real lesson.”

Alexander can hardly move, weak as he is from the pain. He can't fight Jefferson off when he presses close to Alexander's searing back, wraps his hands around Alexander's wrists and pulls him backwards. He can only strain to arch himself forwards, away from Jefferson's body, and watch as Jefferson turns his palms up and hooks his thumbs over Alexander's fingers, keeping his hands stretched flat. Madison has hardly moved, only reached down beside his chair and _oh no, oh Christ, no_ come back with a riding crop.

He tells himself it won't hurt as much. He tells himself he can bear it. Oh God, his _hands_.

Alexander can't look away. The crop snaps down against his right palm and it's reflex, to try and close his fingers and pull away and Jefferson doesn't let him, Jefferson is too strong and he knows, horribly, even as the tears are blurring his vision, that he's going to remember Jefferson's hands forever, every time they fight. Madison alternates, left then right then left again, and every time he struggles and every time it does nothing but make the welts on his back flare where they rub against Jefferson's chest. Alexander is sobbing, he can hear himself, choking out "please, God, please don't," and he thinks wildly of Laurens, Laurens who would have endured this so much better, Laurens who would have screamed and he would have killed them both if they had ever hurt John like this and John is dead and there is nobody coming to Alexander's rescue and he can't feel his hands, there's only the pain and Madison is still snapping the crop against his burning palms.

He falls when Jefferson lets him go, onto the hard wooden floor, and he cannot even try to catch himself.

Alexander lies there, panting, while they talk over his head. He can't make out what they say, in deep murmuring voices, and it's almost soothing. He stares at Madison's shoes. He doesn't dare to move.

It's Jefferson who drags him up to his feet, uncountable minutes later, hooking strong hands beneath his arms and heaving him upright. He can hardly balance, he staggers when Jefferson makes him walk. He leans on the table in front of him, his hips braced against the edge. The idea of putting his hands down is absurd. They stay curled helplessly against his chest, except when Jefferson pulls them through his clothing, dressing him like a child. The rasp of waistcoat and ruined shirt against his back makes him whimper aloud, flinch away from Jefferson's mockingly affectionate touch.

Jefferson guides him out of the room. Madison says nothing, only stares and stares, flexing the crop between his fingers. Jefferson says “Give my regards to Eliza, won't you?” and then there is an agonising shove against his back and the front door shuts behind him and Alexander is shivering in the street, tearstained and alone.

He knows the way home. He can't picture it properly, but he knows he knows it. He follows his feet, watching them passing over the stones in a rhythm that never quite echoes the throbbing of his welts. He hurts. He can't remember what it feels like not to hurt. Home can't be far away now, surely. He keeps walking.

It's almost a surprise to find himself staring at his own door, if he had the energy for surprise. He tries to dig in his pocket for his key, but his hands won't work. Of course they don't work, Madison broke them. It makes him giggle. Madison wrote with him and then he broke his hands. He can't get through his front door. So he turns around and watches his feet take him somewhere else. It's not far. Maria's door. Clever feet.

There's an iron knocker. He drags it up with the side of his wrist, lets it fall. Again. Again. Maybe she's not home. Maybe Madison told her not to let him in. He doesn't know what he talked about while they were hurting him.

He stares when the door opens, wordless, but Maria says “Alexander” and draws him inside. She closes the door behind him and he thinks it ought to make him safer but it feels like a trap. He flinches when she touches his arm

“Sorry,” he says, “sorry, I can't… I can't go home, I can't get in.”

“Alexander, what happened?”

“Politics,” he says vaguely, and follows her upstairs. He shies away when she reaches for the buttons on his coat. She watches him a moment, her hands hovering over his chest. He breathes. She touches the top button.

He lets her undress him, hating that it feels strange. Maria's mouth is tight, she frowns at his coat as if it offended her. He shrugs out of it, tensing as the lining drags against his hands. “Your hands I can see,” Maria says, “where else?”

It takes a minute for Alexander to understand the question. “Back. Back of legs. Hands. Mouth. They didn't hurt my mouth. That was the knife.”

She bites her lip and sets a hand on his chest. Gentle. He trembles but he can hold still if she's gentle. The waistcoat goes hard. She can't help how it shifts over his back and he can't cling onto her; after the first couple of buttons he braces his wrists on her shoulders and closes his eyes. She says “Put your arms down, so I can get it off you,” and she's gentle, she's kind as she works.

He is dreading the shirt coming off, but she doesn't say anything, doesn't comment on how it falls ragged around his ribs, she only undoes his cravat and unlaces his collar and pulls the ruined thing over his head. It burns against his skin and he falls forward into her but she doesn't let him fall, doesn't wrap her arms around and aggravate the pain, only holds him up until he can stand and let her work his useless hands through the cuffs of his sleeves.

“How bad are your legs?” Maria asks, matter-of-fact, like asking her son if he's skinned his knees, and he shakes his head.

“Not,” he says, “they're not. They ache.”

“Lie down then, love.”

Alexander doesn't understand, but he follows, lies on his side on the sheets that are not as fine as his own. He has a sudden flash of memory, dreads that Madison will press up close behind him and hold him like an anchor, but there is only Maria's soft hand on his waist. “Your back's bruised,” she tells him, “but you're not bleeding, you'll heal without scars.”

She lies in front of him, kisses his forehead. She reaches for his hand.

Alexander can't breathe.

Maria's hand is steady on his wrist. She touches his palm and he flinches. He wants to pull away. He shakes with the effort of holding still. _Maria_ , he tells himself, this is Maria, she is not here to hurt, she is not Madison, you can be brave for Maria. Her fingers are cool, pulling his hand open, a fraction at a time. “They're swollen, Alexander, that's why they aren't working right. You need to relax the joints.”

“They're broken,” he says, and his voice sounds small to himself.

“Not quite,” she says, and keeps opening his fingers. He can feel tiny cracking shocks run through his knuckles. He closes his eyes.

“It was a riding crop,” he says at last. “I don't know how they knew. Maybe they didn't know. Oh God, Maria, I miss him. It _hurts_.”

Maria doesn't ask questions, she never has. She doesn't ask about Eliza and she doesn't ask about his work and she doesn't ask, now, about Laurens, and he's choking back tears when she picks up the other hand and starts stretching out his fingers with patient care. “It'll pass, love. It'll pass.”


End file.
